Of Tea & Home
by KatjaLaRoux
Summary: Moving hurts. But Hawke wants tea, no one else is around, and she's stubborn. / "I'm the bloody Champion of Kirkwall," she muttered. "I will not lose to a stupid chair." (Oneshot. femHawke/Fenris.)


**_A/N:_** Takes place at the end of Act 2, just after the duel with the Arishok. Rogue Hawke, romanced Fenris—the same Hawke and Fenris as "Of Flowers & Jealousy" and "Of Music & Reconcliation." Each oneshot can stand alone, but if you want to read them in order they go: T&H, F&J, M&R. For SinsofMidnight's Writing Challenge: Prompt 39 "Tea/Coffee."

* * *

Getting out of bed was slow and painful. Getting down the stairs without pain was tedious and exhausting. Getting all the way into the kitchen only to find the tea tin empty was just heartbreaking.

Hawke scowled at the empty tin. Then she remembered that there would probably be a brand new one stashed in the top cupboard. Orana always liked to keep extra goods stored, just in case.

Hawke set the empty tin back on the counter and opened the cupboard door above her head. Just like she thought, there was an unopened tin of Brecilian Black tea, right next to two unopened jars of sweet almond paste from the Anderfels.

She grinned. Expensive, imported food was about the only thing Hawke truly enjoyed about being a noble. The thought that a simple black tea from Ferelden was considered a luxury item in a country that hated Fereldan refugees still amused her. The only reason the tea was so expensive was because the Blight had nearly destroyed all of the tea crops. And Hawke was pretty sure that the only reason anyone in Hightown drank it was because it _was_ so expensive.

Hawke drank it because the dark, smoky flavor reminded her of _home_.

Growing up, her father drank nothing but Brecilian Black. Her mother hated the stuff. She complained that it smelled like a campfire. Nearly every morning, they had an argument about it. When she was five, Hawke was confused as she watched her father lean in for a kiss only to be pushed away by her mother, who smiled and said "You smell like a campfire." At the age of seven, Hawke decided that "You smell like a campfire" was a compliment. By the time she was an adult, Hawke understood that, to her father, "You smell like a campfire" meant as much "I love you."

She shook off the bittersweet memories and glanced around the kitchen for something to stand on. How Orana, who was no taller than her, managed to make use of the highest shelves without any sign of a stepstool was beyond her.

It only took a moment to find the chair in the corner. She managed to get it placed in front of the cupboard with minimal discomfort by scooting it across the floor with her knees. Climbing onto the chair, however, was a bit of a challenge.

She lifted her leg to brace one foot on seat of the chair and gasped as a sharp pain shot through her abdomen. She stumbled backwards, suddenly breathless. It was quite possibly the worst movement she could have asked her body to make. And she realized, belatedly, that if she was having trouble bringing her leg up in order to step onto the chair, she was going to have an extremely difficult time getting herself back up the stairs.

Blinking back tears and catching her breath, she straightened. And frowned at the chair.

"I'm the bloody Champion of Kirkwall," she muttered. "I will not lose to a stupid chair."

This time, she tried to sit on the chair, thinking she could somehow get herself to her knees, then to her feet with less pain.

"Andraste's fat ass," she groaned when she remembered how hard it had been just to get out of bed. The act of sitting upright required essentially the same muscle movement as stepping up. And those muscles were not particularly interested in moving like that.

She frowned up at the tea tin then glanced back down at the chair. It was just too large of a step up, but maybe she could manage smaller steps. Encouraged by the idea, Hawke scanned the kitchen for something half the height of the chair, something she could use to build herself steps. She grinned triumphantly when her eyes settled on a small crate.

Again, scooting it with her feet to avoid bending over and lifting, Hawke lined the crate up next to the chair. She eyed her makeshift stairs warily before taking a deep breath and stepping onto the crate with her left foot.

"Oh, Maker's _balls_."

The smaller step was less painful. But only barely. She still had to pause to catch her breath, frowning at the chair in front of her and debating if it was worth the pain to continue. But it was for the Brecilian Black tea.

Hawke grit her teeth against what she knew was coming and started to lift her foot to the chair.

"_Fasta vass_, Hawke! What are you doing?"

Fenris's voice cut across the otherwise silent kitchen and into Hawke's concentration, startling her. She spun towards him—or started to, at least. But she had one foot in the air, and as soon as she started to twist she felt a blinding jolt of pain. She tried to reach for something to regain her balance but missed, her arms flailing uselessly in the space between her and the counter.

She squeezed her eyes shut as she prepared for the inevitable impact with the solid floor. What her back hit, however, was not the floor.

Fenris let out a small grunt as he caught her, and Hawke let out a high-pitched "_shit_" as his arms wrapped around her torso, sending another flare of pain through her. He loosened his grip almost immediately, but her feet were still on the crate. Without his arms holding her up, she dropped gracelessly to the floor, bringing Fenris with her.

For a moment, all Hawke could do was try to breath. She was vaguely aware of Fenris repeating her name, but she couldn't open her eyes until the pain subsided. So she clenched her teeth and breathed as steadily as she could.

Slowly, her surroundings came back into focus. She was on the kitchen floor. Fenris was on the floor with her. Somehow she was sitting in his lap, her back cradled against one shoulder. She blinked a few times and found herself looking up at Fenris. He was frowning.

"Are you hurt?"

"No more hurt today than yesterday, if that's what you mean." Hawke tried to smile at him, but she could tell it wasn't much of a smile. Fenris's frown deepened.

"That is not very reassuring," he replied.

"Well," she tried again. "At least my insides are still…inside."

Fenris closed his eyes and shook his head slightly.

Hawke sighed, "I'm fine, Fenris. Really."

"I find that difficult to believe, Hawke." He tipped his head to one side. "What exactly were you trying to do anyway?"

"I wanted tea." Then she frowned. "Why are you even here?"

"I heard you swearing."

"No, not here in the kitchen. Here in my house. Why are you here?"

Hawke regretted the question almost immediately. Fenris's eyebrows shot up, and he blinked at her once before frowning again.

"I…never left," he answered finally. "Anders had to return to his clinic, but he requested someone stay here to…I believe 'keep you out of trouble' were his words. I volunteered."

Hawke couldn't help but scowl.

"I'm not a _child_," she insisted. "I've got Orana and Bodhan and Sandal here. And even then, I'm capable of taking care of myself. I don't _need_ help, and I'm _not_ going to get myself into trouble in my own home."

"Clearly." Fenris arched an eyebrow, his lips curled into a faint smirk, and Hawke's indignation wilted.

She did have a knack for getting into trouble. And she obviously hadn't done so well in her quest for tea. And then her brain helpfully pointed out the detail that Fenris had _stayed_. She idly wondered why. When he had walked away so easily before, why had he stayed this time?

Frowning, Hawke looked down, spreading her hands over her abdomen. She could almost still see the Arishok's sword there, buried nearly to its hilt. She remembered very little about the aftermath of the fight. Everything after Meredith named her Champion was a jumble—just snatches of conversations, flashes of images. She remembered Bethany and Anders discussing the damage the Arishok's sword had caused, most of which she didn't understand. And she woke at one point to hear the Chant of Light being recited quietly in Sebastian's Starkhaven brogue.

"I almost died, didn't I?" she whispered.

He didn't answer her questions directly, but she heard the answer in his tone nonetheless—tense, strained, and maybe a little angry.

"Anders told you to stay in bed for a least a week to let your body fully heal. It has only been three days."

She closed her eyes and sighed, letting her head rest against his shoulder. And a vague memory of Isabela whispering an apology in her ear drifted to the forefront of her mind.

"Fenris?"

"Hmm?"

"Isabela left, didn't she?"

"I…have not seen her since that night," he said slowly.

"And Bethany?"

"I believe she left you a letter."

Hawke was quiet for a long moment. The exertion of the last hour was finally catching up to her. At least, that's what she told herself it was. It had nothing to do with the suddenly heavy silence in the room or the acute awareness of how cold the kitchen floor was.

"Can you help me get back upstairs?" She murmured, glancing back up at Fenris. She tried to ignore the slight crinkle in his brow and the softness around his eyes.

"Of course, Hawke."

She shifted, trying to get into a position to stand up, but before she got anywhere, Fenris tightened his arm around her shoulders and slid the other under her knees. Scooping her to his chest, he stood effortlessly.

Hawke grit her teeth against the pain the movement caused. Fenris paused, looking down at her with concern.

Hawke just shook her head. She wasn't about to complain. Not only did she know the pain would be a thousand times worse if she were to try walking up the stairs herself—but she was tired. And she selfishly wanted the few moments of being in his arms. Because everyone else had left. And Fenris had stayed.

He settled her back on her bed and helped arrange the blankets around her.

"So," he tipped his head to one side. "You wanted tea?"

"It's okay," Hawke shook her head. "I think…I think I'm going to try to sleep a little. I'll just wait for Orana to wake up."

"Are you sure? I don't mind."

"I'm sure," Hawke offered a small smile. "But thank you, Fenris."

"I remain at your side, Hawke." He returned the smile. "I have told you this before."

Hawke nodded. He had said those exact words many times over the last couple of months. She just hadn't quite believed them until now.

Hawke woke an hour later to the smell of campfire drifting from the pot of tea on the table next to her and the sight of Fenris sleeping in the chair in the corner. She drew her brows together and turned to the window. The first rays of morning were only just peeking through the curtains. She glanced back at the tea.

It was still too early for Orana to be up.


End file.
